Chapter 33
Marcy
The winter sun hangs weak but bright, casting sharp glints off the snow crust blanketing my aunt’s yard.
We’ve spent most of the morning outside, knocking ice from the shrubs and scattering seed for the cardinals that dart along the fence line.
My hands have gone stiff inside my gloves, but the simple rhythm—scoop, scatter, watch the flash of red wings—keeps me anchored.
It feels good to do something useful.
Something that has nothing to do with hiding or running or fear.
“See?” my aunt says, shaking the last seeds from her palm. “They remember where the food is. They always come back.”
Two cardinals dive for the same patch of ground, wings flashing crimson against white. The smaller one retreats with a sharp chirp while the victor pecks away triumphantly. Something clenches behind my ribs at those last words.
We stay outside until the birdseed runs out and my fingers go completely numb.
“I’ll get started on the hot cocoa,” my aunt says, her breath forming small clouds. “With extra marshmallows.”
I kick off my boots at the door, leaving twin puddles of melting snow, and hang my coat on the wooden peg before shuffling into the warm kitchen.
Cinnamon and cloves still linger from this morning’s oatmeal.
My phone vibrates against the granite countertop where I abandoned it earlier, the screen casting blue light across the polished surface. I pick it up and my stomach drops.
Six missed calls. Four from Nova and two from Wes. My voicemail icon flashes red like a warning light, but before I can press it, the phone buzzes in my palm, skittering like a trapped insect. Nova’s name fills the screen, bold and demanding. My stomach plummets as if I’ve missed a step.
My aunt’s wooden spoon stops mid-stir. Her eyes—the same golden brown as my mother’s—catch the shift in my expression. “Go on,” she says, gentle but firm. “Answer.”
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the green icon. Fear closes my throat. What if it’s bad news? What if it’s Landon?
But I press anyway.
I step into the next room and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
The voice that comes through is so loud I jerk the phone away. “Marcy?” Nova’s breath hitches between words. “Oh, thank God—I thought—I kept getting your voicemail—”
“I—I know, I’m sorry, I—”
“There’s no time.” Her words rush together. The phone crackles with movement—footsteps on concrete, a metal door slamming. “Brett pressed charges against Landon. He told the cops Landon assaulted him.”
My fingers go numb. The phone slips, and I catch it with both hands.
“What?”
“They’ve got him at the station now. Becket’s there but—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Marcy, I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do.”
Something squeezes behind my sternum like a vise. I gasp but can’t pull in enough air. My knuckles go white gripping the back of the couch as Nova’s voice buzzes through the phone against my ear.
“They’re saying it’s serious. Like… like he could actually get charged. Brett’s playing the victim, saying Landon attacked him unprovoked.” Her voice cracks. “Marcy, you know that’s not true. You were there.”
I press my fist to my mouth, shaking my head like I can undo her words. Images slam into me—Brett’s sneer, Landon’s fists connecting, the threats that still echo in my ears.
”My face will be the last you see…”
“Please.” Nova’s voice breaks, her breath catching. “You’re the only one who can help us—” She swallows audibly. “If you don’t come—”
“I’m on my way.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, hoarse but certain.
Silence stretches across the line. Then: “Okay.” Nova exhales, the static rush of air filling my ear. “Okay, good. Just—” Another pause. “Just drive safe, okay?”
“I will.”
The call ends with a soft click that sounds impossibly final. My arm falls to my side, the phone slipping through numb fingers onto the couch cushion.
My aunt’s slippers whisper across the hardwood as she approaches, her face gentle with concern. “What happened?”
“Brett—he—” The words stick somewhere between my chest and throat. I swallow hard, my fingers twisting the hem of my sweater. “He pressed charges. Against Landon. Nova says they need me to—”
Her palm settles on my forearm, warm through the fabric, anchoring me when everything else feels like it’s spinning away. “Then you go.”
I look up, searching her face for hesitation, for judgment. Finding none. “Just like that?”
Her smile is small but fierce. “You’ve been waiting your whole life for a place where you feel like you matter. From what I’ve seen, you’ve found it. You love that man.”
Her words terrify me because deep down I know they’re true. I do love Landon—I’ve loved him for a while now.
Heat stings my eyes. “Maybe it’s not—”
“It is.” She squeezes my arm. “I can see it plain as day. And I’m proud of you for finally choosing something for yourself. For standing up, even when it’s terrifying.”
My aunt’s words hit me like a physical blow.
I blink rapidly, my vision blurring as I stare at the wooden floorboards.
The memory of my mother’s dismissive wave when I’d shown her my college acceptance letter flashes through my mind.
My father’s empty chair at every school event.
The counselor who suggested “more realistic goals.”
My aunt has always believed in me—seen me—when no one else would. Her hand remains steady on my arm while I struggle to breathe around the knot lodged in my chest.
I nod quickly, brushing tears away with the heel of my hand. “I have to go.”
“Then go,” she says again, stepping back. “Don’t worry about packing. I’ll handle whatever you leave behind.”
I don’t even think. I shove my phone into my pocket, grab my coat from the porch hook, and jam my arms into the sleeves. I snatch my purse and sling it over my shoulder, not bothering to check if anything’s inside beyond my wallet and keys.
I zip my coat with trembling fingers. My aunt's slippers scrape across the porch boards behind me, the screen door banging shut. When I glance back, her chin is lifted, shoulders squared against the bitter cold.
"Drive safe," she calls, breath clouding white between us. "And Marcy?"
My keys bite into my palm as I hover by the open car door, one foot already planted on the salt-crusted floor mat.
She presses her lips together, then nods once, firmly. "The rearview mirror is for checking traffic, not for watching what you're leaving behind."
I nod, swallowing hard against the knot in my throat, and slam the door with enough force to rattle the window.
The key turns and the engine catches with a desperate growl.
Frozen gravel pops and cracks beneath the tires as I back out too quickly, my aunt's figure already shrinking in the rearview mirror.
I shift into drive and press the gas harder than I should.
Snow crystals dance across the windshield, melting into teardrops that streak sideways in the wind.
My fingers grip the wheel until my knuckles go white.
The speedometer needle climbs past the limit as Landon's police station address glows on my phone screen—the destination arrow pointing forward, never back.